


The Quality of Mercy

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Endgame, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Schmoop, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-06
Updated: 2006-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Connor's death, Methos gives Duncan the benefit of his experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quality of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> This is... well, to say it's unbeta'ed is to understate the facts. I just felt like getting something down really fast in light of Certain Rumored Craptastic Movie things. Part of this was excised from a story long ago, because I thought it was too self-indulgent. Apparently, though, I'm feeling very self-indulgent today. Hence the unbeta'ed thingy. I hope it's worth reading for someone.

_The quality of mercy is not strain'd,_  
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven  
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;  
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 

__  
\- The Merchant of Venice  


* * *

Methos wasn't surprised to wake alone in the hotel bed, in the too-quiet room. He'd hoped exhaustion might spare his companion some of the inevitable nightmares for at least a few hours, but no such luck.

He rose, wrapping the thick duvet around him. It wasn't hard to guess where he would have gone; the balcony door slid open soundlessly, and he stepped out into the cool night, the wind lifting his hair.

* * *

Duncan sensed as much as heard him, the awareness of him a new thing, a powerful attraction he couldn't deny. He knew the secrets of that expressive body now, knew the pleasure they could call forth from one another with a touch, the terrifying rightness of what it was like to feel Methos's body against his. It seemed impossible that they should have known each other all those years and not felt these things. Perhaps they had been there all along, hidden beneath the surface of everything they'd said, everything they'd done. Perhaps if they had just let it happen, everything might have been different.

"You okay?" Methos said softly.

"Fine," he lied easily. "Too tired to sleep, I guess."

"Want to tell me what it was about?"

When Duncan said nothing, Methos sighed and came to lean against the railing next to him. It felt inexpressibly right to have Methos beside him, as it always had. He'd missed the feeling more than he'd known, and it rose over him now, the simple truth of it an ache of longing.

He wanted to ask Methos to go back into the bedroom with him, lie down with him again, make love so that he would have something to hold on to, something real that he could believe in. It seemed an impossible thing to ask for what he wanted. Things had never been that simple between them.

"It's gonna be okay," Methos said at last, his voice a soft rumble against the whisper of the distant wind in the trees.

Duncan could only nod. His throat had closed, the pain inside him sharper now. He held himself in tightly, afraid to move for fear of what would happen if he did.

"It'll get better," Methos went on, sounding so sure. "It always does." There was warm humor in his tone, and deep affection. "Trust me, I know of what I speak."

Duncan nodded again. He did trust Methos. But he had been falling for such a long time, it was hard to remember anything else. The pressure within him felt immense, intolerable. He stared out at the park below but didn't really see it, Methos's loosely clasped hands the only clear thing in his field of vision.

"This isn't about Connor, though, is it?" Methos said at last. "What's got you so upset, Mac?"

Upset? Yes, he supposed he was. So long since he'd felt anything, really, that he almost didn't recognize what it was like. So many things seemed to be roiling up to the surface, pushing at him from inside. His chest, his belly ached with it. His limbs ached with it, as if they were too heavy to bear. "I don't know, I just—" His hand closed, made a fist, as if he could grasp the answer. "I think it was seeing Kate. Seeing what she'd become. How alone she'd made herself." As if the words breached something fatal in him, he choked back the gasping breath that tried to escape with them, refusing to give in to the heat and pressure blocking his throat. He couldn't finish. Couldn't put a name to it.

"Oh, Mac." Methos moved in his peripheral vision, the hand that clasped his shoulder warmer than he would have guessed, the grip strong and insistent, pulling him close. "You're not alone. Not as long as I've got anything to say about it."

Methos untied his robe and slipped his hands inside it, the cold a shock against his bare skin for only a moment; before Duncan could protest, Methos had opened his blanket and wrapped it around them both, cocooning them warm and naked together. The press of Methos's body offered support, sanctuary, all the things Duncan had never let himself hope for from him given easily, as if it were nothing at all, as if it were something Duncan might have sought there at any time if he'd only asked. For a long moment he stood frozen, some last instinct of self-preservation warning him that this fleeting comfort would cost him dearly, but it stood no chance against the yielding of his own body into Methos's, the ache of throat and heart and soul that sought that offered embrace. Methos said nothing, only held tighter, bedrock steady, asking nothing more than that Duncan stand close within the circle of his arms. The intimacy of it made him tremble, a faint shiver he couldn't suppress; the hands at his back stroked gently, as if in understanding.

And after a while, he found he could breathe, could relax a little into the embrace, turning his face blindly into the warm hollow of Methos's neck and letting himself inhale the scents of his skin. Methos could keep his distance with the best of them, but when he decided to get close, he did so with his whole body, nothing held back. He seemed to be in no hurry to let go, either, and the realization of that sank into Duncan like warm sunlight, rousing memories of the night before, the coolness of Methos's body against his overheated skin, the weight of him against his belly and hips and thighs.

A different ache slowly flooded him, loneliness he had carried with him for so long ebbing away painfully, a release that felt like the weightlessness of falling. "I dreamed it was the future," he said at last. "The world was scarred by war and death. I was searching for something, and you were with me." He swallowed, shuddering a little with the memory. "You were with me. But I couldn't stop until I found whatever I was looking for."

He felt Methos nod, felt the silky press of his skin, his sex soft and warm against Duncan's thighs. "Then what happened?"

Duncan closed his eyes. "One by one, everyone I loved was taken from me. My friends. Amanda. Joe." Remembered grief pressed at his throat. "You fell next to me, on a battlefield. I saw your sword on the bloody ground. But I went on. Always, I went on."

"Mac." It was a soft breath against his ear. He realized there was wetness on his face.

"In the end, I was home. Scotland. But the man I was, was a stranger. I didn't recognize him. I looked into his eyes, and there was such darkness..."

"Just a dream, Mac. I'm right here. Joe's safe. Amanda's coming tomorrow."

"I know. I just— It's been so long." He pulled away, and Methos let him go. Frustrated with himself, Duncan wrapped his robe around him, tying it closed with a sharp tug. "Why did I wait so long? Connor was missing for ten years. What was so important, that I didn't try harder to find him? What was so important that I couldn't pick up a phone and call my friends these last few years?"

"We knew you needed time. Joe knew."

"It was time he didn't have to spare."

Methos's eyes were gilt and shadow in the moonlight. "True enough. But you're home, now. You're with us. Stop beating yourself up over it."

Irritated at his calm, Duncan shot him an impatient look. "Life goes on, that what you're saying?"

"If you're lucky, even when you don't want it to."

That gave Duncan pause. Something inside him went still. "I don't want to die."

"But you don't want to live, either. I know. I have been where you are." Methos looked hard at him. "You think we're so different I can't understand how much these last few years have cost you, how lost you feel right now? You think I don't know what it's like to wander from day to day and pray for an end to it because the despair and the fear are all around you, and you have no hope, not even of escape because you know that death is not the answer?"

"Connor thought it was." He couldn't help the bitterness he felt.

"Because Connor thought he'd found the way out. He saw his chance and he took it, and he didn't let himself care what it was going to cost you. He couldn't afford to care about that. He saw a chance, a way to make his death mean something—or at least that's what he told himself—and he took it. Same way I tried to do, when we first met. He looked at you and saw his freedom, Duncan. Just like I did. Just like you did after Richie died. You have every right to be angry at him for that. Every right. It wasn't fair. Isn't fair."

Duncan swallowed. "Were you? Angry with me?"

"Oh, you bet I was. You were supposed to be different. Better than the rest of us, that's what I told myself. That's what I believed. But I understood. I knew. And you were strong, stronger than you knew. Stronger than Connor. You didn't give up, not for long. You knew that dying wasn't the answer. It's not that easy." His voice gentled. "You told me that, remember?"

Duncan leaned on the railing, unable to look at him. His throat tasted like ashes. "When does it stop?"

"When you remember how to live. When you let go of the fear."

Something squeezed behind his ribs, a cold pressure that had rested at the center of him for so long that he had stopped feeling it long ago. It had become so much a part of him that he didn't even recognize it any more, couldn't even hold the entirety of that deep, bone-chilling terror inside his mind. He had thought himself without fear, and hadn't understood that he was filled with it, that it had spread so far through him that he was made of it, no room for anything else. He couldn't breathe, it was suddenly so real and present within him—because what if this was all there was? What if there was no end to it? What if all that would ever be was this deep and endless chasm of loss, of aloneness and himself the only enduring thing, going on and on to the end, to the elusive and merciless Prize, watching everyone he'd ever cared about die because of him?

"I can't." The words wrenched out of him.

Methos touched him, then, brushing his hair back gently behind his ear. It made him close his eyes and lean into the touch despite himself. "Sure you can," Methos said, patient and certain. "That's what I'm here for. To help you remember."

"Methos." His heart felt like something was lodged in it. A blade, seven years deep. "This wasn't supposed to happen between us." Not now, not ever. _I'm in love with you, can't you see that?_

"Not everything is planned, Duncan. Not everything is written." He stroked Duncan's hair again, waking shivers. "And not everything has to be answered tonight. Come to bed with me. Let me take you outside yourself for a while, if I can."

Exhausted past bearing, it was more than Duncan could do to resist him. They went back inside, and Methos shut the door. He led Duncan back to the bed, laid him face down and covered him with his body, warm from the cocooning blanket. His mouth on Duncan's neck, his shoulders, the small of his back, hot and tender. His fingers, slick and patient, working Duncan open so slowly, so gradually, that he was bathed in sweat and trembling by the time Methos kissed him on the back of the neck and slid into him, the perfect, invading pressure of him sending a shudder of response through Duncan, a soft moan escaping him. Methos held him and fucked him and murmured his name like an invocation until all thought fled away from him, until it was only the sound of that voice saying his name that kept him anchored while the rest of him stopped fighting everything so hard, and let go, and flew.

* * *

"That's it," Methos murmured, feeling it when he was close, when his soft, panting breaths became ragged with his relief, with his struggle to give what Methos was asking of him. So brave. Even now, fighting so hard to live, to be strong enough to bear it. To hold on, even as he let go. "I'm here. I've got you."

Mac sobbed a little and shuddered, holding on to Methos's fingers between his as if his life depended on it. Then he was coming against the sheets, shivers racking him as he gave himself to it and trusted Methos to keep him together. "Methos—"

"Shh. I've got you." It sounded breathless to Methos's own ears, his own shudders running through him in slow, delicious waves. He closed his eyes and rode it for a little while. So many times he'd imagined this, known this day would come, and still it surprised him.

Mac let him separate their bodies without protest, let him clean them with a warm cloth. His eyes stayed closed, though he was too still to be asleep, his face too troubled. Guarding himself, Methos thought. Afraid. But fear of a different kind, this time, a more ordinary kind. "Hey."

"Yeah?" His voice sounded thick.

"Come here, will you? I don't bite, I promise."

Mac hesitated only a moment, then shifted nearer, let Methos fit himself against him. Methos pulled the covers over them, then looped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. "Think you can sleep now?"

"Yeah." A deep rumble, a deep sigh against him. "Think maybe I am asleep. A good dream, this time."

Methos smiled against his hair. "Glad to hear it."

They lay together in the comfortable darkness, just breathing. He smelled like sunlight, a warm, clean scent that made Methos close his eyes and bury his nose deeper in his soft hair. He felt his own exhaustion creep up on him, pulling him down. But something kept him from quite letting go.

"It does get better, I promise. I wasn't just saying that."

"Didn't think you were."

"No?"

"Since when have you ever lied to make me feel better?"

"Ah, good point. So, what is it?"

The hesitation was unmistakable, his stillness acute. "Doesn't matter."

"Mac. It matters. Don't make me kick your ass."

He felt more than heard the painful chuckle. Felt the deep breath, a little shaky. "All right, just— stay a while, will you?"

 _This wasn't supposed to happen between us._ Methos felt his own disbelieving laugh bubble up. What a couple of fools they both were. He brushed his hand over the thick softness of his eyebrows, the rough rasp of his cheek, learning him in the dark. "You idiot. What did you think?"

  
_The End_


End file.
